something I found I had written-

an albatross around my neck, Alice Neel, it didn't work out that way when we were children
My neck hurts when I think about it, when I look over my shoulder at my reflection in the front door and I wonder who those people were in the photographs I bought at the flea market and if rambling is some shade of purity, or if that cotton ball lodged in the back of my throat isn't there, that I've just made this sickbed out of nothing, not books of paper towns or Egyptian cotton blankets, nor my hair creased from an all-day ponytail or the dress I last wore when I was in your room.